the jewel maker's son
by Bondmaiden
Summary: It is only then Kuroko parts his lips and tilts his head to the side, like a drunken lover waiting for the ghost of a man to return to his arms. "I eat jewels to create them, so yes, they are my creation." AkaKuro /AU Fantasy
1. the bijoux harlequin

**A/N:** _this is a series of short chapters, inspired by an image of kuroko with antlers that's spreading around tumblr, and also a manga that also explored the same setting. while I'd love to write more, I can't. because (a) I'm in the midst of my final assignments this april and may is the beginning of my final examinations for this semester, and (b) I can't focus on two things at once because my brain capacity is severely limited. I'll probably be able to write lengthier chapters after the first two weeks of May have passed, but for now, I hope short chapters will be satisfying enough? I'm just in (desperate) need to throw something in for AkaKuro week, and I am very gomen if it seems very half-assed because half-assed is my middle name sobs_

_but hey i do have the second chapter if you guys are interested to read more tomorrow?_

* * *

Seijūrō's heard of him before.

His name is Kuroko Tetsuya and he's the finest craftsman Seirin could ever offer in such a small, dilapidated village in the outskirts of the big city. As the son of Kuroko Michiru, he's lived up to the reputation of maintaining his deceased father's store, no matter how run-down it has gotten over the many years of service. All of the great Teikō kings had their bejewelled crowns and crystal sceptres crafted by Michiru before until it's almost a tradition, and Seijūrō sees nothing wrong with having a crown befitting of his newly-granted stature designed by the descendent. It's almost partially the reason why he's gone down to Seirin by himself, without the slightest fear of thieves and assassins targeting his back, clad in a commoner's clothes and riding a horse like a seemingly harmless traveller.

The rusted sign bearing 誠凛 for Seirin creaks as it swings in the air, and for miles around, a desolate landscape paints a picture far more than what Seijūrō's imagined.

The previous king, Akashi Oryō, told Seijūrō on his deathbed that he's going to leave a crumbling empire in his hands, and Seijūrō thought he had a good mind of what's in store for him when he'll be ascending the throne. Improving the economy, establishing equality between the commoners and nobles, reducing taxes, and drafting in more soldiers to serve the kingdom is what he had in store, but he doesn't have a clue of the extensive damage his father has done to the oppressed villagers over the years.

Visiting Seirin is a good idea as an eye-opener before his coronation ceremony, he thinks, as his horse plods onwards.

To his left, a row of slope-roofed huts with puffing chimneys decorate the scenery, and clucking chickens peck the ground in search of food. Dainty shrubs of pink blossoms decorate the windows, and he spots fresh linen curtains billowing in the breeze as children ran about with laundry baskets twice their size. A bright glimmer shines in their youthful eyes as they laugh without a single care in the world, and Seijūrō smiles fondly at their freedom. He's never tasted that very same freedom before—his fingers have never even grazed his own clothes when he was young, what more dashing about freely like these children.

He's a bird, a glorious bird of paradise locked in a gilded cage, and it still hasn't changed, even until now.

A few chattering villagers to his right catches his attention and Seijūrō glances at them as they shoulder their hoes and rakes, dirt-lined fingers and smudged faces twisted into jovial smiles. Despite their apparent suffering, they're still able to go on with their lives. An unbreakable spirit, an indomitable mind, something purely noble that Seijūrō admires in these common folks. At the very least, they're untainted, not corrupted like some of the nobles loitering about on the palace grounds.

"Hey you," someone calls out from the distance, and Seijūrō twists his head in the direction of the voice. There's a man hurriedly coming his way and pacing alongside him, trying to keep up with the steady pattering of his horse, and he's got a pair of glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. "The name's Hyuuga," he introduces himself, putting a hand on his chest, "what's yours? You don't look like you come from around here."

A commoner coming up to introduce himself is a rare feat, and Akashi wonders if the man has a hidden agenda beneath his kindness.

But then again, it isn't a good thing to doubt everyone he comes across.

"Seijūrō," he replies, nodding curtly as he pulls the reins to halt his steed. "I'm a traveller in search of Kuroko Tetsuya, the jeweller. Mind pointing me in the right direction?"

That name has Hyuuga's eyes lighting up.

"You mean Kuroko? Kuroko Michiru's son?"

A nod. Seijūrō's bemused at how Hyuuga's frowning at him now, rubbing his chin as calculative eyes assess every inch of his skin, from the ashen brown horse to the patched shirt he's wearing, down to the worn leather boots on his feet. After a while of slight mumbling under his breath and scratching his nape, it's only then that he speaks, but his tone is monotonous, heavy with a certain weight that Seijūrō doesn't know of.

"You don't look like you can afford the stuffs he makes, sorry to say," he begins, cocking his head to the side. "I don't think he should be wasting his time with you. Why don't you go back to where you came from?"

"I do carry a good sum of money for his services," Seijūrō says, raising his brows questioningly. "I am merely dressed like this to avoid drawing attention to myself. Now will you, or will you not take me to him? Or else," he tilts his head, nonchalant, "I am better off finding him on my own."

From the looks of it, Hyuuga doesn't buy his words at all, and his lips form a begrudging line. He toes the dusty ground with his sandals and lets a whirlwind of silence pass between them, and Seijūrō's almost tempted to urge his horse to march along again. But then Hyuuga finally comes around with an irritated sigh, and he rubs his neck guiltily before gesturing to his left. "Come on and follow me then, Seijūrō. But you better have that money—if not, we'll chase you away," he grumbles menacingly, narrowing his eyes. "Got it?"

"Of course."

Seijūrō finds no pleasure in drawing out an argument when he knows he's right, always right, never ever wrong, and he jostles his horse as it begins trotting along the villager with ease. Together, they cross by more thatched huts with wispy roofs, and he eyes the laundry lines a few ladies are setting up as their children giggle under the sun. Sometimes a few men greet Hyuuga and he never fails to reply to them with a grunt, a nod or half a smile, and it strikes Seijūrō that perhaps this Hyuuga person is someone fairly important in Seirin. After all, despite his obviously unfriendly disposition, they still regard him highly with their bright smiles.

"Sorry about earlier, man, we're a bit protective of Kuroko," Hyuuga suddenly speaks up as they both made a turn to the right, passing by a few rustling trees. The ground is harder here, less dusty and a tad bit more isolated, and the cries of the children seem so distant now as Seijūrō glances back, seeing watery blurs of houses behind him. A few birds twitter between creaking branches and the dazzling mosaic of leaves dance on his skin as he follows Hyuuga, who looks pained for some reasons. "It's not like we don't want him to get customers, but sometimes the ones who showed up are..._hostile._"

"Hostile?" Seijūrō echoes, catching on. "Are they thugs, by any chance?"

A noncommittal grunt and Hyuuga shrugs. "Something like that." He's leading Seijūrō into a secluded area of the village, hidden amongst thick tree trunks and large bushes of wildlife, and only the steady rush of a nearby river fills the ringing silence in Seijūrō's ears as he waits for Hyuuga to continue. "We're all just watching out for Aomine Daiki—he's the slickest thief of a dying tribe and he's tried robbing Kuroko a few times whenever we're not careful. And this Aomine bastard has friends that we had to watch out for too; a mercenary by the name Kise Ryota, and a temptress called Satsuki or something like that. They're sometimes banded together, sometimes they work individually, but we don't know who they are, we haven't seen them both before either, so I was kinda wary about you."

Well.

That's a big problem.

But that also explains Hyuuga's reluctance in the first place.

"Why don't you safeguard him then?" Seijūrō suggests, knitting his brows together. "Have someone keep an eye on him if he really is that precious to your village."

At this, Hyuuga barks with laughter and ruefully shakes his head, lips quirking into a sardonic smile. "If it's that easy, we would've done it a while ago. Kuroko's a bit... special."

"Special?"

"You'll know it when you see it," Hyuuga replies, pocketing his hands in his loose trousers. "Anyway, we're here. You're not going inside, so you just stand out here with me. God knows what you'll do when you get in."

Deciding not to mind his discourteousness as he is a future king under cover, Seijūrō exhales heavily.

Patience is virtue, and he will not demand more from a cretin.

True to his words, they're now standing in a small clearing, the lawn of a quaint-looking hut of lovely red bricks and dazzling stained glass windows. It doesn't look like any of the houses he's passed by earlier, as he's expected another utterly rundown establishment judging from the surroundings. But it's like unearthing a gemstone in the heart of the forest. While it's true that the rusted scroll leaf grills needed a good replacement and the scratchy brass doorknob warrants some heavy polishing, something about the place whispers of faded romance, yet there's still an air of poignant bliss that's undisturbed by civilization. A lingering scent of crushed roses and scattered petals, primly maintained courtyard that's a simple combination of a covered well and a crudely paved walkway, Kuroko Tetsuya's abode sings with an air of mystery that Seijūrō cannot fathom.

A tad bit puzzled at this, the redhead climbs off his steed and hands the reins over to Hyuuga, who accepts it with a grudging glare.

"Hopefully he's not too busy," Hyuuga mumbles to no one in particular, looking over his shoulder to give the surroundings another once-over. Seemingly satisfied with no presence of anything suspicious enough to warrant a heart attack, he shoots a glare to Seijūrō and huffs, "Now you listen here, if Kuroko says that you can go inside his house, under _any_ circumstances, you **can't** go in. Got it?"

"That's rather impolite, don't you think? If he has invited me inside, then I will enter as a customer and nothing else," Seijūrō blithely remarks with a frown. Regarding the little residence with a dismayed stare, he eyes the luminous sparkles of the exquisite stained glass windows and catches a fleeting dark shadow casting dim shades over the vibrant hues. What was that? He blinks, at a slight loss. Shifting his weight to one foot, Seijūrō crosses his arms over his chest and squints harder at the windows as though the strange apparition would manifest itself if he stares hard enough.

As if noticing his lack of response, Hyuuga follows his line of sight with a hesitant glower.

The door creaks.

And then Hyuuga's jaw dropped. "W-Wait Kuroko, damn it! Don't you dare get out of the house, damn you!"

It's staggeringly slow how the door's being pulled by something unseen inside its dark depths, but Seijūrō's sharp eyes catches a twinkling blue fabric spilling onto the ground the moment sunlight filters within. Soft patters fill the unearthly silence in the woods as he waits with bated breath, and daintily pale feet slowly steps into the light, revealing the hems of a fabric that glows ethereally as though each woven strand is harvested from apatite gems. Hyuuga's breath hitches at the mere sight and his hands tremble, but he maintains his fierce disposition and manages to glare at Seijūrō sideways as though it's his fault that this is happening.

Unaffected, Seijūrō watches on with mounting interest, his eyes narrowed.

And then an antler peeks out from the shadows.

A crystalline antler growing out of a messy tuft of head.

A human head.

A human _boy's_ head that's weighed down by a pair of Celestine crystal-like antlers, where each branching form jingles with the weight of the golden chains, pearl beads, and silvery ribbons hanging off them like a chandelier of sorts. The curious sight of it all doesn't instil terror within Seijūrō's mind—no, it does not make him tremble at the unknown, it does not make his palms sweaty, and it certainly does not repulse him. Yes, he cannot fathom why there were antlers growing out of the boy's hair like a mutated protrusion of sorts, and yes, he cannot begin to comprehend when he sees pale shoulders uncovered by a gradually slipping robe, but it isn't nausea that fills Seijūrō's heart.

It's awe.

The strange boy's gaunt skin blossoms scarlet at the exposure to sunlight, but he's indifferent to the growing burns. Rather, bony fingers trail over the doorframe with no destination in particular and his translucent blue eyes, as bright as the overhead skies, as empty as a broken heart, stares at Seijūrō instead.

"I am Kuroko Tetsuya," he says softly, barely above a whisper. "Do you need my services as a jewel maker? Or are you here to capture me?"

* * *

**#2:** _At this, Kuroko manages a semblance of a smile, a wistful smile generated from hazy memories of happier moments in his life, and he gazes longingly at the stained glass windows, the rainbow mosaics reflected vibrantly in his glassy eyes. "My father told me that the Akashi kings who visited him have hairs of coagulated rubies and crushed persimmons, and their eyes are like the ripest of cherries you can pick in the summer." He pauses, casts a sidelong glance at Seijūrō, and bites on his lower lip. "You fit his description perfectly, Your Majesty. Your hair is like the dahlias blossoming in spring and your eyes are the exact same colour of my father's blood spattered against the wall."_


	2. the pact

**A/N: **_don't be surprised if the chapters jump from scene to scene, because i don't like writing super lengthy scenes. : besides, this is a fast-paced story, and i don't want to make it draggy. at least i hope not. and please don't shoot me because of short chapters. short chapters are nice. really nice. Do review for more updates!_

* * *

**the jewel maker's son**

_#2: the pact_

Kuroko teeters from side to side nimbly, surprisingly agile for all the weight stressed on his head. In his ladylike hands he clutches a jewelled tray, putting down jewelled teacups, and pours steaming lavender tea from a jewelled teapot. Jewelled chandeliers, jewelled vases, jewelled tables, and even jewelled quills. Jewels in abundance everywhere. In his humble abode he single-handedly puts all of Teikō Empire's riches to shame, from the walls that host protruding jewels of vicious hues, to the tiniest bit of details such as the aquamarine-crusted oil lamp sitting on his silver mantelpiece and the tiny tourmaline stirrer on Seijūrō's saucer. It's no wonder that Hyuuga's overprotective of him—he's too fragile to defend himself if someone as rowdy as Aomine attacks, and Seijūrō fears that he might break a bone or two if he slips and falls down by accident.

"Please drink," he invites, setting down on a worn sofa and observing the other's movements impassively. "Forgive my lack of preparation. I don't get visitors often."

"I can certainly tell from your friend outside there, he isn't keen on having me intrude your home," Seijūrō jests before bringing his topaz crystalline cup to his eyes and admiring the unearthly glow of the exotic piece. Unable to provoke a response from the listless boy, he smiles quietly and tacks on another topic, "You have such interesting things here, Kuroko. Is it of your very own creation?"

The chains dangling on his antlers clink together in the muted expanse of Kuroko's house as he sedately stares at Seijūrō right in the eyes, unresponsive. He does not know of fear, like it's a foreign word, nor does he bother to look perturbed at how Seijuro is expectantly waiting for his answer. The air is filled with a sweet scent of ripened fruits that he's placed on the coffee table for their consumption, yet, it reeks of the secrets that the strange boy locks away inside that frail stature of his. _Hush_, he seems to say in his silence, _you don't know half of the things I've witnessed, you don't know a chapter in my life._

And it's tragic.

It is only then Kuroko parts his lips and tilts his head to the side, like a drunken lover waiting for the ghost of a man to return to his arms. "I eat jewels to create them, so yes, they are my creation."

What?

Seijūrō jerks in his seat, eyes unblinking.

Did he hear that correctly?

Did the boy just say that he eats jewels to craft them?

Unaffected by the disbelief darting through Seijūrō's face like he's seen replays of this many, many, _many _years ago, Kuroko smoothens the creases of his sparkling robes and exhales softly. Wry. Dispassionate. Bitter, bitter, so very bitter. "I am the son of Kuroko Michiru," he refreshes his introduction anew, but his tone is flat like no, he does not want to do this anymore, no, he does not want this to happen either. "He passed away several years back and so, I took over his job. I am nowhere as great as he was, but if you are willing to let my incompetent hands craft your crown, then yes, I will be honoured to."

Suddenly finding his throat parched, Seijūrō sips his tea and frowns curiously at the mysterious jewel-eater sitting across him.

He does not ask of the protruding antlers or the dangling luxuries tangled on Kuroko's hair. He isn't disconcerted by the fact that Kuroko consumes gemstones for a living, as though normal humans devour gems for breakfast, lunch and dinner. No. It does not concern him, nor does it bother him any longer. Seijūrō hasn't even introduced his name or hinted at anything of royalty from the way he dresses, or even the way he speaks. So how does this mysterious boy actually pick up that he's the next one in line, he's the prince and yes, he's here to request Kuroko's assistance in creating his crown?

Mystified, Seijūrō wets his lips and asks.

"How did you know I will ascend the throne? And that I'm here to have you create my crown?"

At this, Kuroko manages a semblance of a smile, a wistful smile generated from hazy memories of happier moments in his life, and he gazes longingly at the stained glass windows, the rainbow mosaics reflected vibrantly in his glassy eyes. "My father told me that the Akashi kings who visited him have hairs of coagulated rubies and crushed persimmons, and their eyes are like the ripest of cherries you can pick in the summer." He pauses, casts a sidelong glance at Seijūrō, and bites on his lower lip. "You fit his description perfectly, Your Majesty. Your hair is like the dahlias blossoming in spring and your eyes are the exact same colour of my father's blood spattered against the wall."

Seijūrō drops his gaze.

The teacup feels heavy in his hands.

He sets it down on the saucer and inhales sharply.

"I did not mean to remind you of that, my apologies," he says, but Kuroko raises a hand to stop him mid-sentence.

"It isn't your fault, please don't worry," he continues, though his lips have lost the smile and he isn't keen of bringing it back on his face either. "Like I said, Your Majesty, I will be more than honoured to make your crown before your coronation, if you'll have me. Granted, I'm not as gifted as my father was, but I will try not to disappoint you."

This time, it's Seijūrō who cuts him off with a shake of his head, and shrugs nonchalantly. "I will not entrust this task to anyone else other than you, Kuroko. I trust that your exceptionally honed skills are more than adequate for making it. After all," he smiles warmly, "your house is a fine work of art, and you have an eye for intricacies that I find spectacular to look at. You will be rewarded handsomely upon completion of your task, and I will be sure to have you honoured properly during my ceremony."

But no.

Kuroko shakes his head with the reticence of a child, and curls up in his seat.

He does not say it, he does not breathe a single word of it, but Seijūrō knows he's broken in places that he cannot see. Something intangible, like running his fingers through spider-woven silk strands, something deeper, like digging through a mountain of bodies, something transient, like fading reveries with a whiff of nostalgia. His finger draws winding spirals on his robe. His lips tremble and his lashes lower. There is just so much of sorrow choked up in his throat until Seijūrō wonders what will happen if he pries past Kuroko's lips with his fingers and force him to vomit it all out. What will it be? Will it be more secrets and stinging relief or just plain greenish bile and a fistful of sobs?

"There is only one thing I request from you, Your Majesty," Kuroko mumbles, almost intelligible, and he peers at Seijūrō solemnly. "But I am afraid of overstepping my boundaries as your humble servant."

"And what is that?" Seijūrō says, straightening his back with a frown sitting on his slender brows. "Do not be afraid of me, Kuroko, I won't punish you for simply speaking up your mind. You have my word on it."

And Kuroko speaks.

He utters his words so softly until Seijūrō thinks that he is in a dream, a dream of whispers and parading clouds against the bluest of skies.

But the lingering weight of his words is real, and they cut deep into Seijūrō's skin.

"I need you to stay with me throughout the course of your crown's creation, Your Majesty. That is all I ask of you."

* * *

**#3: **_"Nobody pays attention to the gods anymore, not even our late kings," Kuroko says, and for a moment there, he looks like a lunatic as he lets his toe graze over the hardwood floor and skipping a few steps forward. Arms outstretched, poised magnificently with both his palms bearing two glittering rubelite bowls with cascading silver ornaments, the flickering flame of the candles shiver in the night with his every move. Kuroko's body is a pliant marionette, stringless without a conductor, yet each of his movement is accentuated with the silken flow of his spine, curved rigid, as his hips roll exotically from side to side. And for a moment there, Seijūrō is wordless as he gazes upon Kuroko Tetsuya—Kuroko Tetsuya who eats jewels, Kuroko Tetsuya who worships the gods and deities, and Kuroko Tetsuya who dances to please the otherworldly beings._


	3. of gods and deities

**a/n: **ayyy new chapter. :D here's a very late update since next week is my finals. if you're waiting for **the vindictive paradise** to be updated, it'll be updated **next week saturday (10/5),** so keep your chin up. anyways, thanks to _whimsicalglow, Clavemien Nigram Rosa, dunnoifGraluorNalu, AspergianStoryteller, 2 Guests, .Zoldyck, Kerav, and mitsuyo-chan_ for the reviews! :'D i enjoyed reading them.

* * *

At night, he leans over the kitchen windowsill and closes the windows, latching it shut and shaking it once to ensure that it's sealed up tight. Once that's done, Seijūrō sighs and eyes Kuroko, who's contentedly rolling up daintily-knitted emerald laces into square crystal boxes and packing them into a drawer. His neck is stretched taut with swanlike grace and he manoeuvres around his living room with ease as though he's lived with those antlers for all his life, despite their constant shrill clattering. It doesn't seem to be an easy feat, yet Seijūrō thinks that Kuroko definitely won't appreciate it if he shoots a question, so he spares the boy and settles down onto a rickety stool.

Kuroko's movements are lethargic yet entrancing, like a slowly flickering flame that glows brighter than gold. He isn't perturbed with how Seijūrō blatantly stares at him, and he takes his time in piecing together beads of topaz into little cups that tinkle when he keeps them away. Something about Kuroko sings of mystery, and no, it isn't that sort of cheap mystery where he feigns himself to wear another's skin. Rather, Kuroko is an absent being; his body moves with the precision of a clockwork doll, yet, his soul has vanished from its container. A laughter or a smile hardly crosses his face, and all he ever does is to breathe, tinker around with objects, and breathe again.

It's odd.

Yet it's compelling.

Seijūrō's used to meeting chatty ladies and court members who just won't shut up about their trivial affairs of the day, so he hardly has the need to instigate a conversation. Not to say that he is awkward around others, oh no, but faced with a mystifying creature of sublime sophistication named Kuroko Tetsuya has him bemused on what to say, what to ask, what to be considerate of. So far, the jewel-eater has never forgotten his duty as the host of the house and he's been most gracious with food as well as explanations on the layout of his home in case Seijūrō needs a visit to the washroom, but... he is detached from it all.

He's just reciting things, letting meaningless words fall from his lips and expecting Seijūrō to take them at face value.

Even until now as Kuroko fastens the amaranthine bolt over the door and secures it with a diamond padlock, he is as calm as the moon's reflection in a pond, undisturbed with how Seijūrō's right there watching him.

He's beguiling.

Utterly beguiling.

"I usually don't have dinner, Your Majesty," Kuroko speaks up out of nowhere, and Seijūrō jerks out of his inner musings. Coral blue eyes slip over to meet burning crimson ones, and he makes his way over to the princeling, settling down by his feet like how a cat would. From his position, he cranes his head up to look at Seijūrō like a doting pet and continues talking, as though nothing is wrong with his mannerism. "If you'd like to have some bread and jam, I'd be happy to make it for you, as I do not have much to offer you."

Ah.

Dinner.

That's also something else that Seijūrō's noticed about Kuroko. He's been offering nothing but an array of garden-crisp fruits that are delectable to his palate, but Seijūrō's never seen the boy munch on anything else other than that. A strange diet befitting of a strange person, he thinks, especially if he adds the gemstones to the list.

"Some bread would be nice, but I'll make them myself," Seijūrō says, smiling amiably. At his answer, Kuroko tilts his head to the side and his brows furrow as he's about to object, but Seijūrō shakes his head and murmurs, "You needn't treat me as royalty if you need me to stay here, Kuroko. I'm more than capable of doing those things myself if you'll direct me to the kitchen. Treat me as a housemate, if you would."

A housemate is far from what he is, in all actuality, but he needed to establish some sort of rapport with this maker of sorts. It isn't an easy task, but what sort of king would he be if he could not understand his subject well? Especially the _special_ ones like Kuroko. No doubt when he ascends the throne, he'll be hearing stranger cases from every nook and cranny of the Teikō Empire during court sessions, so this might as well be some sort of training for him for the future to come.

"You are still the prince of the empire, it'd be uncourteous of me to let you dirty your hands," Kuroko argues, pursing his lips. "Please, do let me serve you."

"Yet you still wish for me to stay with you in your home for as long as you needed to complete the crown, so you should treat me accordingly," Seijūrō points out, palming his chin as he rests his elbow on the armrest. Kuroko blinks up at him, chews on his lips contemplatively, averts his eyes, sighing—but he provides no response, and his fingers curl into his robes as he lowers his chin. Taking this as a sign of submission, Seijūrō continues. "I am aware that the castle will be in slight turmoil without my presence to regulate the proceedings as usual, but it is a risk that I'm willing to take. Like I've said, you need for me to stay here, then it is my duty to be with you, as long as you complete the task I've entrusted you with."

A pause.

The dim glow of the candles sitting on the mantelpiece over the fireplace stains the antlers on Kuroko's head amber as he sits by Seijūrō's feet, motionless. It's a recurring situation all over again with how Seijūrō says something and Kuroko is unable to respond simply because he chose to swallow his secrets, and it leads to nothing but a standstill, a complete and utter communication breakdown between the two of them. Kuroko's akin to an injured fawn, perhaps betrayed by someone he held close to his heart, and he chose not to expose himself out of fear of getting hurt again. The pain is exquisite, and many people chose to linger and wade through those sea of cuts because they cannot swim over it, and Seijūrō knows it all too well because he's seen it happening to people around him.

To his palace.

To his parents.

To his mother.

To his father.

And perhaps, to a certain extent, to _himself._

As if affronted, as though the words finally hit Kuroko squarely in the jaw like a delayed reaction, he tenses and promptly unfolds himself from his spot, standing up and brushing his clothes. Seijūrō mimics Kuroko in the sense that he chose not to respond, to stay quiet to softly pressure him to speak, and merely contents himself with observing how the boy gathers his trailing stardust robes and gaits over to his bookshelf. The covers are lined with gilded filigrees and sparkle luminously in the room, just like everything else splendid in Kuroko's home, and his fingers select a book of amethyst wisterias splayed over the cover. He clutches the tome close to his heart and plods back to sit by Seijūrō's feet again, this time balancing the book on the redhead's lap and looking up at him expectantly.

"Then, I'll tell you a tale that nobody remembers, not even your ancestors, Your Majesty."

He doesn't wait for Seijūrō's response.

He doesn't need Seijūrō's response either.

Flipping the book open to a random page chock full with antlike scrawling, Kuroko's carefully trimmed fingernail points to a paragraph on the third quarter and answers with the knowledge of the world on the tip of his tongue, the details engraved into the very core of his memories; "Once, there were gods in our world, gods of fertility, gods of knowledge, gods of wealth, gods of every imaginable quality that you can think of."

Seijūrō smothers the urge to frown at the nonsense spewing out from the boy's lips and instead, chose to nod as though he understood the enigmatic words of Kuroko Tetsuya, when in all actuality, he thinks that the boy is either sleep-deprived or is just trying to pull a quick one on him. Despite the awkward position, the weight on his thighs is strangely comforting, and the feel of Kuroko's body pressed against his legs isn't upsetting either—but then again, it's been a long day today. Perhaps Seijūrō's brain is already addled and he isn't aware of it himself.

"The gods have worshippers—us, their creations—and they bless us with everything that we needed. Fertile lands, bountiful crops, and even healthy farm animals," Kuroko says without even stopping to take a breath, pointing to a paragraph near the end of the page and reading the squiggles fluently. "So we lived in excessive wealth, showered with longevity and free from malignant plagues that could devastate any land. But."

Then, he pauses almost dramatically, languidly pinching a page between his fingers and revealing the continuation of the scribbling that Seijūrō cannot decipher for the life of him, before continuing, "The humans are consumed by their own ego. A man thought that he could surpass the gods who have bestowed life upon him, and declared that the humankind were greater than these divine beings. At first, his divergent views were met with resistance as many people still revered the gods and dared not to oppose them."

Gods? Divine beings? Humans opposing gods?

Seijūrō's starting to get a headache from all of this.

For one, he's devoured almost every book out there on folklore and mythological beings within his palace library, and he's never once heard of 'gods'. Of course, the concept of a divine being looking out for them has crossed his mind a few times but there were no proofs of their existence, so he was forced to disregard it. But now, the jewel-eater who will craft his crown is educating him on gods, gods and divine beings, of historical moments where humanity wanted to break free from the gods' reign, and despite the ridiculousness of it all... Seijūrō couldn't dismiss how there's light in Kuroko's eyes as his lips kept uttering these words that he held dearly to his heart.

And he's sharing it with Seijūrō.

So Kuroko trusts Seijūrō enough to share this tale together, under the covers of the night.

"But after years pass, many more people accepted the notion that the gods should no longer be worshipped," the boy murmurs softly, his voice chipping from the despair. For a moment there, he leans his chin against the musty pages and gazes at the drawing of a creature of what Seijūrō assumes to be a god, from his magnificent wings to the enormous sceptre he wields. "They wanted to live in splendour without wasting time for worships, for tributes and little prayers, and as hundreds of years roll by... there are no worshippers left in the end. Even today, if you scour the lands for a man who knows the tale of the gods, you wouldn't find any, Your Majesty."

"If what you spoke truly took place hundreds of years before this, then yes, I suppose nobody would know," Seijūrō placidly agrees, his fingertips gently caressing the rough texture of the book in his lap. Some of the tangled chains on Kuroko's antlers sprawl over the pages and cast opaque shadows obscuring the words, and Seijūrō absently rolls a beaded pearl between his fingers as Kuroko mulls on, watching him from under his lashes. "But it is a wonderful story, nonetheless. I've never heard of anything like it. How did you ever come across such an intriguing tale?"

"I didn't make it up, if that's what you're wondering," Kuroko shoots back, almost affronted at Seijūrō's words. He raises his chin from the book and glowers at the redhead, rather upset at the accusation. "It's the story of the gods and the people before us, Your Majesty. The people who worshipped the gods, the man who stood against the divine beings because of his ego, and the ending of the tale. We are the product of their actions, in case you haven't noticed.

Huh.

Seijūrō's almost inclined to argue, but supposing that this is the first time Kuroko's almost passionately making his point and willingly opening his mouth, he just can't help but to nod along.

"All right, if you insist. So who is the egoistical man who managed to lead others away from the path of worshipping gods? I reckon he is quite a character with a strong personality."

And then Kuroko tilts his head to the side, looking at Seijūrō almost as though he's asking a foolish question.

"Of course he is, you would know him," he says flippantly. "He's your ancestor, King Akashi Reizei."

Oh.

_Ouch._

Without even uttering another word to console Seijūrō—not that he needed it even though he's quite taken aback from how Kuroko announces the name as though he owns the list of names of kings who've ruled Teikō even hundreds of years back, Kuroko leaves his spot once again and makes his way towards the many drawers stacked by his work station, where he fishes out two gemstone blocks. One burns with the brightest hues of limes and moss, while the other is a calming lavender river, and he backtracks to stand in front of Seijūrō, shoving these two under his nose. It is only then, under intense scrutiny and mounting confusion, that Seijūrō finally makes out what seems to be two idols carved out from the amethyst and emerald blocks, with toothpick fine details of a solemn man in glasses and the other, a giant with an apple in his hand.

Slightly befuddled with his discovery, the princeling gazes at Kuroko.

"What... are these?"

"These are the gods whom I worship," Kuroko answers, nodding. "The one in green is Midorima-sama, and the titan is Murasakibara-sama. Midorima-sama is the god who showers us with knowledge, while Murasakibara-sama blesses us with fertile lands for tiling. They are the ones responsible for our empire's development and growth."

At this, Seijūrō raises his brows. Intrigued, yes, albeit the confusion that's filled his mind to the brim. Since he's mired in too deep, he might as well hear him out.

"And, pray tell Kuroko, how do you worship them? Do you offer them food or little trinkets in makeshift shrines?"

"No."

Kuroko shoots him a look as though he should feel ashamed of himself for asking such a stupidly obvious question. Promptly placing the two statues on the mantelpiece to compliment the littered vases of crystallized flowers, he whips around and all Seijuro sees is the flat plane of his back as he strides away. There's a clattering sound in the background and the curiosity gnaws away at Seijuro's mind, of Kuroko's mysterious actions and unfathomable actions, and he perches up on his seat to get a glimpse of what's going on. The opaque shadows on the walls move erratically now and more clunking follow, and then Kuroko returns like a fleeting shadow of the night, hoisting something in his arms. When all Seijuro could do is to regard the scene with obviously bemused silence, the teen quirks his head to the side.

"I dance for them."

Well, that's new.

"You dance for them?" Seijuro parrots, and he gets this feeling that echoing what Kuroko says is what he's been doing all day. He can't help it; there are so many incomprehensible things happening all around him when he's just here for the sake of a crown. He didn't sign up to be part of a new cult or religion from a boy with antlers, that's for sure, but there's something about Kuroko that gets him hooked like a desperate addict that thirsts after his unusualness. He's been educated with how many emperors have valiantly sacrificed the royal vaults to help the villages through winter, how many wives have taken their own lives out of jealousy, how many ministers have succumbed to corruption, but none have educated him on gods and sublime deities.

None except Kuroko Tetsuya.

As though trying to prove a point, Kuroko sets up his stage with his palms carrying bowls, and he stands poised in the center of a clearing, all the while staring at Seijuro defiantly. He doesn't utter a word now, he lets his body convey his words, and the dim lighting picks out the golden threads sewn into his robes as his hips sway to an imaginary beat. It's strange how Seijuro's only seen women doing these dances only for pleasure and entertainment in courts, during celebrations and high time festivities, but to Kuroko, it's almost a natural façade on him. The ornaments on his antlers clink with every accommodating shift of his body, and he places a foot forward with a knowing smile.

Not to the gods.

Not to the unseen eyes.

But to him—to Seijuro.

"Nobody pays attention to the gods anymore, not even our late kings," Kuroko says, and for a moment there, he looks like a lunatic as he lets his toe graze over the hardwood floor and skipping a few steps forward. Arms outstretched, poised magnificently with both his palms bearing two glittering rubelite bowls with cascading silver ornaments, the flickering flame of the candles shiver in the night with his every move. Kuroko's body is a pliant marionette, stringless without a conductor, yet each of his movement is accentuated with the silken flow of his spine, curved rigid, as his hips roll exotically from side to side.

And for a moment there, Seijūrō is wordless as he gazes upon Kuroko Tetsuya—Kuroko Tetsuya who eats jewels, Kuroko Tetsuya who worships the gods and deities, and Kuroko Tetsuya who dances to please the otherworldly beings.

* * *

**#4:** _"I won't mind, but you might start growing mould," he replies with every inch of seriousness in his voice, and Seijūrō takes a moment to backtrack and piece together the puzzle that is Kuroko Tetsuya. The boy is still absently slicing the bread with a knife of sharpened jasper, careful enough to balance each meticulously measured slice onto the blade and depositing it on carnelian plates, and then he adds almost conspiratorially, "But if you do start growing mushrooms, then that would be great. I can use them for cooking."_


End file.
